Scorpios Can Be Murder
by C. Holywell-Black
Summary: He is a Scorpio. She is a Virgo. And if they want to defeat a serial killer, their compatibility had better be high.
1. Day 1, 8:30am

_It's time for a little light mystery, like the spin-off Death Note novel 'Another Note: The LA BB Murder Cases'. This includes a certain detective and his new protégé, a certain writer. (If you want to read more into it, you can always have a look at my other story - 'LAWLIET: Blood Ties', or its prequel. It will just make more sense. This is set after the Kira case, so as you can see... L is alive here.)_

_This story is undergoing a big rewrite. Just a heads-up that some of this is a repeat, but changed, so pay attention if you read it before._

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><p><em>Prologue<em>

She'd never expected that she would find herself standing opposite a ruthless, cold-blooded killer with no way out. Her heart was hammering against her chest so hard it was a wonder that they could not hear it, and as they walked forward slowly, a devious grin on their features, she made a silent prayer that somebody, somewhere would hear the scream gradually building in her throat. She would gladly have taken a liking to religion in order to get good with a deity.

"No, no, no," the killer warned her. "You mustn't scream. It will just waste your energy. I wouldn't want you incapable of putting up a good fight."

They leapt at her furiously; hand already out to grab her by the throat.

**XXX**

_Day 1, 8.30am_

"Who's coming, anyway?" asked Constable James Howarth of his associate, Sergeant Harold Pinter. "I heard it was some whack-jobs. Just some freak and his little companion."

"I don't honestly know," Pinter admitted. "I was told to let them in and just see them on their way if they proved of no help to the investigation. I can't guarantee anything about them. I have no idea who they are."

The sleek black limousine pulled up outside the home of the now late millionaire Arnold Morecombe twenty minutes later, and out clambered two rather strange-looking individuals, two people you would never expect on a crime scene.

One was a tall, pale man hunched over with messy black hair, faded blue jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt. Without knowledge of who he was, Pinter put him at about twenty-five years of age, and the woman that followed him at just out of college. She was reasonably tall also, with short dark gold hair and blue-green eyes. She was wearing a denim jacket over a Union Jack shirt. Was nothing sacred anymore? They wandered over like they were on vacation.

"Good morning, gentlemen," the girl greeted them in a distinctive English accent. Oxford? Cambridge? Kensington? How could he place it?

"Indeed, good day," the black-haired man added. "My name is Ryuzaki, and this is my new associate who you may call C."

"What is that short for?" Howarth asked.

"It is short for 'none of your business'," C answered politely. "It is lovely to meet you all, though, by the way."

Howarth and Pinter stared at the two, shocked, and although he did not wish to admit it, the constable was extremely disconcerted by their arrival. He had never heard of either of them, and now they were butting into the case like it was their own? It was preposterous! Scandalous! How dare they? It was not as if they possessed skill of their own. Howarth gave Pinter a nudge and inclined his head towards the two of them, clearing his throat.

"Um... well... of course, it is nice to meet you too, but this case is already being studied by our top detectives. There's no need for you both to be here," Pinter said quickly. "I doubt very much that a zombie and a blonde bimbo would be of use to us."

"A _blonde__bimbo_?" demanded C. "Would a bimbo be able to tell you your own feelings by studying you for ten seconds?"

"What a bloody cheek!" Pinter scoffed. "Who do you think you are?"

"Oh, dear," C murmured, raising an eyebrow. "Frustration, directed at both myself and your superiors. You genuinely can't believe that a man of your alleged stature is being made to take orders from a little girl, and trust me, sir, you _will_be taking orders. That's not all, though. There's irritation at the fact your wife will soon find out you're cheating on her."

"I... I..." Pinter stammered. "I never...!"

"Evidently you have, sir," she replied. "Your female associate over there keeps glancing our way, and she has dirty knees."

When Howarth began to chuckle, she stepped forward and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a grey piece of paper and twirling it neatly between her fingers. "Does this look like a piece of paper a policeman of your respectful background would carry with him? Ryuzaki, does it?"

"I suppose not," Ryuzaki shrugged.

"No, of course not," C smiled. "No, this looks like something you use for a roll-up." She reached forward, and, ignoring the policeman's protests, yanked up his sleeve. She was exposing his Nicotine patches. "You see? I do not know much about cigarettes, but I do know how difficult it is to 'get off' of them. You must be trying to quit smoking for _someone_, and that someone does not have the knowledge that you are struggling with your nasty little habit."

Ryuzaki smiled what seemed a little proudly, his dark eyes watching the girl with interest. If Pinter didn't know any better, he would guess that C was Ryuzaki's... prodigy. She must have been very young, only nineteen at most and what seemed to be a twenty-five-year-old man would not have been working with someone that age unless it was professional fascination – or it was an unhealthy fascination, which seemed entirely possible when you looked at the man.

"Whose house is this, Sergeant?" Ryuzaki asked abruptly, pulling Pinter from his musings. "I was not informed."

"This belongs to the late millionaire Arnold Morecombe," supplied Howarth. "Or it did. Now it belongs to his wife, an American woman by the name of Ashley Lawson. She just came home this morning after going to a spa and found the man dead. She immediately called the police, so he we are."

"She has the word, 'law' in her name," C commented. "I like her already."

"I'm not sure you'll like her later," Howarth mumbled. "She's a bit of a trophy wife, if you know what I mean."

"Regardless," C said sharply, "we must withhold judgment, Constable."

"C, come along," Ryuzaki hissed, grabbing her wrist and pulling her away. "It is time to inspect the crime scene. I am certain that I will be of great use here. I take it everything has been photographed and wiped for fingerprints?"

"Yeah… um… our best boys have been in," Pinter agreed. "You're safe to go in."

"Good, because I would have entered anyway," Ryuzaki admitted bluntly.

The crime scene seemed to resemble exactly what C would have expected of a homicide. Blood spattered the walls, the obviously expensive ornaments shattered and the dead body of Arnold Morecombe sprawled in a bath of money in an unnatural position. He looked like he was reaching for something, even flat on his back and motionless. Ryuzaki immediately went and crouched down next to the corpse, studying the position in which he lay. He followed the victim's eye-line until he saw a simple porcelain sink. Was he reaching for the sink? There was nothing in it...

"This was not a frenzied attack," Ryuzaki deduced. "This is not a normal position to fall into, even being brutally murdered. His legs are pulled up to his chest and yet he is reaching out and screaming? No, he was put into this position."

"Why?" C muttered. "Why this position? He was trying to grab hold of something."

"The killer?" Ryuzaki suggested. "A weapon that has now been removed from the scene? I am not certain at this moment in time, but I will investigate some more. C, would you care to have a look? Give me your _expert_ opinion."

Something about the way he said 'expert' made Pinter feel like he was being left out of a joke he would not understand even if he knew it. He frowned, observing as the girl went to join him, snapped on some Latex gloves she had kept in her pocket and began to study the head suspiciously. She touched the hole in the side of Arnold Morecombe's head gingerly, pressing the jagged edges and tracing her finger along the cracked skull and the shards of bone in the flesh.

"A bullet would not have made this hole," she said simply. "My guess is that the weapon was a hunting knife, like the one up on the wall there. He was stabbed repeatedly in the side of the head. Our killer was clearly an amateur, yet had a specific objective, for every time he thrusts the blade, it is a controlled movement. I think he wished to kill and get as much blood from the victim as possible. Silly, really... if he wished to gain blood from the victim, he could simply slit the jugular, thigh, ankle or wrist, places where the main blood vessels are located..."

"Maybe he knew there was not enough blood in the victim's body for what he was trying to do," Ryuzaki provided.

"If that were the case, what would he be trying to do with all that blood?" C did not seem to be asking anyone else. She was kneeling by the bathtub, questioning only Ryuzaki. His eyes only responded to her questions with more questions.

The door behind them closed and it was not until she heard a, "holy shit" emit from the doorway that C even moved. She turned around and gasped.

"You said you were on a road trip in Europe!"

C's lifelong friend, a tenacious redhead by the name of M, was gaping at her in shock.

* * *

><p><em>Apologies for the really short chapter. As mentioned before, this is undergoing a rewrite.<em>

_C._


	2. Day 1, 8:59am

_I do not own Death Note or any of its characters, just the OCs. That includes me. I do own me. I don't own M. That would just be... weird, seeing as she's my friend and all. Yeah. Freaky._

* * *

><p><em>Day 1, 8.59am<em>

"No fucking way!" M exulted, rushing forward and grabbing C's arm. "You and... and_who__are__you_? C, you have to tell me _everything_! Now!"

C gave L a weary look, rolling her eyes, rose to her feet and left the room with M. Once they were out of earshot, the redhead rounded on her friend. "Okay, I seriously don't know what you've been up to, but you've been lying to me, and you've been lying to your family. You're eighteen, C; you said you were studying on the road. You're meant to be in France right now, girl, studying for a Drama major. I was taking out all my anger on my parents when I heard you were leaving Cambridge, and now... good God, have you been with a freakazoid all this time? Three weeks?"

C sighed and nodded weakly. "Yes, I have. What am I meant to tell you, though, M? I am working on murder cases as a freelancer? know how dangerous that could be."

"Oh, please!" M snorted. "That's bullshit."

"It is no joke," C replied severely. "Now you have to swear you will not inform my family of my location. I told them the 'road trip' lies because it was the safest way for them. I don't know how to tell you this, but... I... you know how I was before I left Cambridge? I was just _not__there_, and you could get no determination from me, no motivation! Now I have found what I want to do! I want to be a detective!"

"You're delirious, C. I know you showed interest in law enforcement before, but this is just stupid," M shook her head. "How about we play rock-paper-scissors for it? If you win, you can carry on doing what you want to do. I won't say a word to your family. Scout's honor."

"And if I lose?" she tested. A wry grin replaced the pissed-off expression on M's face.

"If you lose, I get to tell your family what you've been doing. In addition, you have to stop investigating, and you've got to introduce that weirdo in there to your parents." C froze, ice splinters pinning her muscles into place. Introduce _L_to her _parents_? Had M completely lost her mind in her absence? Or had she just gained a dreadfully dark sense of humour? No, wait... she'd always had that. It just had never affected C this way before, because C had never had secrets before.

"Chickening out?"

"No." One, two, three... C's hand was clenched into a fist, M's fingers shaped into a scissor-like V. "I win. Now you say nothing, and I can get on with my job."

"No fair! Best out of three!"

"No chance, M," C said coldly. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"They said they needed a doctor on the scene."

"You – are – a – _vet_!" she protested. "Not even that: a vet in training! What help could you be to a murder investigation?"

"How about spying? I heard from the boys in blue that this murder isn't the first in this area recently." C's answering expression was shock. She had been told nothing about that. Seeing she caught her friend's interest, M elaborated. "Apparently, four others have been murdered in this town in the past four days. Today's the fifth victim, fifth day. I bet you didn't know that now, did you, little _genius_? Are you reconsidering your Scooby Doo venture?"

"Come and have a look at the body," C said abruptly.

"I don't have forensic experience," M admitted.

"I do not care. Just look at it." She led the redheaded girl inside and gestured for her to go have a look. M crouched down gingerly next to L, pulling a disgusted face.

"You know, that is seriously the freakin' grossest thing I have ever seen in my life," M muttered. "But still one of the coolest."

"Can you see anything of interest?" C asked lightly, standing several feet behind them with her arms folded.

"I'm having a pretty hard time trying to keep my eyes on anything but this bloody great hole in the side of his head!" M spluttered. Something flashed in her eyes before she murmured quietly, tunelessly, "Ooh, won't you miss me like a hole in the head? Because I do, boy, and it's cool, boy..."

"M," C said warningly. "Anything?"

"Uh, did this dude have a dog?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Did the dearly departed own a dog of sorts? He's got Labrador hairs all over his coat to go with all the blood." Ryuzaki, known to the other two as L, shuffled forward, inspecting the tweed jacket Arnold Morecombe was wearing. When he lifted a long, white, blood-encrusted hair from the velvet, he smiled.

"She is perfectly correct. There _are_dog hairs on this coat. Why did no one notice this before?"

"I... I..." Pinter stammered. "There must be a reason!"

"Yes, your incompetence being that," C snapped. "Why, might I ask, would a murder victim who does not own a dog have dog hairs on his coat? Did no one check this body?"

"Our very best forensic experts have been in," Pinter defended himself. "It isn't my fault!"

"Evidence bags," M said loudly. "I'll need them right now."

"Are you the doctor we called for?" Howarth asked.

"No," M shrugged. "I'm training to be a vet."

"Then what are you doing here?" Pinter demanded.

"Hey, I just identified what might be a big piece of evidence, so shut up," M snapped. "I don't have to listen to your crap."

C rolled her eyes, which landed on the blood on the wall. It was five past nine in the morning now, so the blood had been there... how long? One hour? An hour and a half? Long enough that it hadn't completely dried, considering how much of it there was. It was still a rather vivid garnet-red, splattered roughly one point seven three meters up the wall, where it came to an abrupt halt and splayed off into a web-like series of drops. She glanced over at the body in the bath, which must have been about six feet four inches tall, approximately one point nine three meters. There appeared to be no other lacerations on the body besides the jagged hole in the side of Morecombe's head, so really... how could the blood be falling that low? She pointed out her theory quickly and L gave her a quizzical look.

"He could have been knocked out, making him fall to that height, and then placed in the bath," Pinter sighed.

"Even knocked out, he would not collapse to that height. He was too tall for that. His head would have reached about... here," she gestured to the wall. "And there is nothing to show that he was stabbed whilst pressed against the wall. The killer may have been collecting blood, but that could have been collected someplace else, and..." She froze. "Was the killer collecting the blood to splatter the wall with?"

"It's a good hypothesis," L agreed. "One moment."

He stood up, scanning the floor. As he walked past Pinter, he took an ultraviolet torch from him and flicked it over the ground. A ghost of a smile touched his face.

"There is a stream of blood that makes me think he's been dragged. There are no other open wounds on the body that he may have bled from, so he may have been stabbed elsewhere in the house. My guess is he was stabbed five times in the side of the head when he came to the door – there are no signs of forced entry – and then dragged through the house to the bathroom. The bath was filled with his money and he was placed in the bath," L summarized.

"That doesn't explain the Labrador hairs," Howarth muttered.

"No. You are correct. It does not. Ryuzaki, come here," C instructed. He obeyed, standing directly in front of her. "Hm. Now, gentlemen, cast your minds back. Imagine that Ryuzaki here is Arnold Morecombe. Ryuzaki, if you would kindly collapse, please."

Managing to prevent himself staring at her in disbelief, he faced away from her and fell backwards into her arms, like he would in a trust exercise. M snorted, covering her mouth with her hand. She spun him around briefly so he was facing her, still limp, and smiled politely.

"My only guess is that Mr. Morecombe was stabbed at the door, to support Ryuzaki's theory, and then our killer, male or female, tried to pick him up, like this." Ignoring the policemen's wide eyes, she wrapped her arms around Ryuzaki's waist and showed them how he would have been lifted. "Seeing that his or her plan was failing, our killer lowered the victim, now bleeding to death, to the floor, dropped him there, and dragged him by his heels to the bathroom" – she acted it out as she explained, laying L on his back and dragging him by the ankles – "where the incidents proceeded as Ryuzaki supposed, with one small exception, if my theorizing is correct."

She released L's feet, and, while he scrambled upright again, made a move towards the corpse, hand reaching out to the victim's head. Wearing her Latex gloves, she touched the inside of the skull, leaving some sticky blood on the end of her finger. Then she did what no one else was expecting. She touched the tip of her tongue to the blood and withdrew it quickly, tasting it.

"How delightfully vile," she murmured, brushing off the shocked expressions of her peers.

"That... that was _blood_!" M gasped. "Ugh, now _that_is the grossest thing I've ever seen! C, why'd you do that? That's disgusting!"

"Ah, nothing more intriguing than a splash of O negative," C teased. "Give me time. I have yet to complete my task."

Sweeping past L and M, she moved to the wall where the blood was spattered. She touched it with a different finger and repeated her previous action, licking the red liquid tentatively. Her face twisted in abhorrence. "Nasty," she admitted. "Well, I least I know I was right. That stuff on the wall there is _not_Arnold Morecombe's blood. It has nothing to do with him."

"Whose blood is it, do you reckon?" M asked.

"Nobody's," C explained. "The red substance on the wall is not blood. It's _paint_."

"Well, at least we have a motive," L mumbled, standing (or rather, slouching). "It looks like somebody wanted to make an example of Mr. Morecombe."

"They certainly did that," M commented.

Having been searching through Morecombe's medical records, a pathologist on the scene blinked in shock. "Well, shoot me dead and call me a mongoose," she chuckled. "His blood type really was O negative."

* * *

><p><em>Please let me know what you think. Reviews are like drugs (listen to 'Addicted' by Kelly Clarkson if you can), but not the 'make-you-sick' kind. No, more like a painkiller. Yes, like sugar-coated ibuprofen or something.<em>

_Also, thanks to anyone who has decided to actually stick with this story regardless of the late updates and massive rewrite._

_C._


	3. Day 1, 10:30am

_Day 1, 10.30am_

When the former Mrs. Morecombe had finally gotten through the hysterics of finding her late husband's corpse in the bathroom, she diverted herself into the living room. Flicking shoulder-length banana-yellow hair behind her ears, she decided to watch the crime scene investigators at work. This meant she noticed it when two extra detectives entered her house, one of them just out of college, one that bore an uncanny resemblance to a character from Tite Kubo's _Bleach_.

"Mrs. Morecombe," one of the older police officers addressed her. "Are you ready to speak to the detectives assigned to this case?"

"Oh," she mumbled. "Yes. Yes, I am." She wiped away a non-existent tear from a pretty brown eye and let out an obviously fake sob. Once he'd gone off to fetch one of the detectives, she rolled her eyes. How irritatingly dull...

Both detectives and a fiery-tempered redhead followed the middle-aged police officer so they could talk investigate anything out of place in the living room. The girl – for she was nothing more than that, in her opinion – came to sit down beside her on the sofa, holding a cup of coffee out for her. "With sugar for the shock," she commented kindly. "My name's Claire Riddle; I'm a detective."

"Shouldn't you be saying 'Detective Riddle', then?" the widow retorted in a strong Texan accent. "I thought you cops liked your titles."

"I'm not officially police," the girl admitted.

"I guess that makes sense," she sighed. "I mean, you're real young. How old are you, sixteen?"

"Eighteen," 'Claire' forced a smile. "What do you want me to call you?"

"My full name is Ashley Annabeth Lawson."

"How about I call you Ashley, and you call me Claire?" Claire suggested. "That way we can get rid of formalities, and you can explain to me how you're feeling without the awkwardness."

"How am I meant to feel?" Ashley asked quietly. "My husband has just been murdered."

"Are you angry?" Claire put forward. "Upset? Scared? Are you surprised?"

"Can we keep this strictly between you and me, Claire?" Ashley whispered. Claire leant forward curiously. "I'm not actually surprised that someone tried to kill my husband. He was an entrepreneur, and he made a lot of enemies. Word on the street is he was trying to buy out the church so he could make a parking lot up for all his stores along the street. I mean, that didn't go down great with the locals. They're huge church folk. Besides, there's plenty-a parking down in Marlowe, Henley or Ascot. They didn't need another parking lot. They could just use the freakin' mall."

"What did Mr. Morecombe's stores specialize in?" Claire wondered.

"He owned men's clothing stores up and down the country," Ashley answered. "He was never at home. It was lucky for the murderer they even caught him here."

"Which clothing stores?"

"_Roulette_," Ashley muttered. "Your friend there might know them."

Claire followed the woman's eyes and laughed coolly. "Ryuzaki? No, he's not the foremost expert on clothing. I doubt he's ever worn a suit from _Roulette_. I know it, though. My brother got his tux for prom from there, renting it. It was good quality, and he looked nice, but it was a bit expensive. How did you meet Mr. Morecombe?"

"I was twenty-four, and we met at a catwalk. He was thinking of extending his branch out to women's evening dress, since the market for that was a lot wider. He was visiting the collection and its designer, Diane, and I was with my friend Rebecca, when he just saw me and he always said after he fell in love – _boop__ – _just like that," she shrugged. "Two months later, he asked me to marry him."

"Two months?" Claire blinked. "That's quite a short period of time to consider marrying someone."

"It was enough."

As hard as she tried, Claire could not see the amount of love and devotion in Ashley Annabeth Lawson's eyes as she had seen in her parents', who had been married many, many years more than the Morecombes had. There was something horribly fake about the whole house, the facade showing much more clearly than she wished it to. Pinter and Howarth had been correct; Ashley had married Arnold Morecombe for his money, and he her for the beauty she possessed. It was a win-win situation until one of them was murdered.

They found themselves joined by the redhead Ashley had spotted earlier, sporting a black leather jacket, grey cami and a chequered skirt underneath a white doctor's coat. As she sat down, she handed Claire a cup of tea, drinking an exceedingly sugary cup herself. She appeared friendly enough. Still, looks could be deceiving.

"Here you go," grinned the redhead. "Hi, Mrs. Morecombe, I'm M."

"Do I know you?" Ashley blinked.

"Nah, but who cares, eh? I'm the doctor they hired."

"Why would Arnold need a doctor? He's dead," Ashley pointed out.

"Exactly the point; he needs me more than ever now-"

"Maybe we should discuss the townsfolk," Claire cut M off. "Did you know people pretty well? Did you count anybody as a good friend?"

"They were all real annoying with us, but I suppose in the bullshit parade anyone could get away with being friends with everyone, right?" Ashley said coldly. "All of us, we're just tryin' to get people on our sides so if we screws up, we got a buffer. Arnold knew that just as much as I did."

Claire gave the woman a sad look.

"That guy over there," Ashley smiled wryly, gesturing over to the crew by the bloody footprints. "I think he's cute."

"Howarth?" Claire choked out. "Constable Howarth?" Bloody hell, she'd moved on fast.

"No, silly," she chastised her. "The dark-haired honey."

"_Ryuzaki_?" Claire spluttered.

"_Yeah_," M agreed cheerfully. "I think Ryuzaki is cute as well."

"M, did you just say Ryuzaki was-?"

"Cute, of course," M grinned. Okay. Red flag going up. Law-abiding and antisocial was not M's type. "What do you think, Claire? Don't you think Ryuzaki is just adorable?"

"No!" she gasped.

"Aw, Ryuzaki," M called out. She took his slight lift of the head when she said his name as a sign that he was listening to her. "Claire says she thinks you're ugly!"

"I didn't say that!" she defended herself. "Ryuzaki, you're not ugly."

He appeared mildly amused by her. "It is quite all right, C. You are permitted to have an opinion on my visage just as much as the next person. I do not consider myself an Adonis, so do not flatter me if you think nothing of the flattery you speak."

"What the-? Oh, just forget it," she muttered. "Ryuzaki, sometimes you can be a right idiot."

"Honey, why'd ya call him by his surname when he calls you by your nickname?" Ashley enquired.

"Because Ryuzaki" – she stood up sharply – "is just Ryuzaki. No first names needed."

"Claire," he said. "I think we're done here. We can talk to any suspects we may gather, and then we'll just need to do some deducing like I taught you. Are you ready to leave?"

"Yes," Claire agreed. "I'm ready to go."

As Ryuzaki and Claire stood to leave, M grabbed Claire's arm. "Wait a sec. You're going without me?"

Claire nodded solemnly. "It's been... interesting… to see you again, M, but my world is not for you. Not anymore. I'm sorry."

"Hey, what the hell?" she demanded. "I want to go with you guys. Not panda-freak, obviously, but C, it sucked when you left. My family thought I was depressed or some sort of shit. Everything got so boring, and then – how about I tell you over coffee or something? It's a bit of a long story. I can't tell you here."

"M, you do not seem to understand," she said coldly. "I say no, and I mean no. This is much too dangerous and I do not want you getting involved."

"C, it's time for us to leave," Ryuzaki pointed out. He wrapped his fingers around her arm, pulling her along, out into the hall.

In that moment, something clicked. Detective work. C.

"_C_," gasped M. "I knew something was up. I knew he wasn't just using it as a nickname for you! You and those broadcasts-"

'Claire' immediately swiveled around, yanked her arm away from Ryuzaki's and grabbed M's wrist, dragging her outside. "You're more trouble than you're worth."

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><p><em>Some days you wonder why you bother.<em>

_Thank you for reading this far, and I would appreciate it big time if you would leave a review to let me know you're still reading._

_C._


	4. Day 1, 11:59am

_Day 1, 11.59am_

C and M, having told L to go investigate the suspects on his own, now took an exhausted seat in Starbucks. They ordered their coffees quickly (M had nicked over fifteen sachets of sugar) and for about two minutes, neither of them spoke. It wasn't necessary. They knew each other so well they could read their friend's kinesics easily.

For example, C's posture was defensive, arms folded across her chest, sitting straight up like she had a pole holding her spine in place. M, on the other hand, leant forward aggressively – whether that fact was conscious or not –, her hands gripping the edge of the table, a sure sign of determination. She wasn't going to leave until she had the information she wanted.

"You go first," M ordered. It wasn't a typical, teenager-ish demand, but the voice of someone who was used to giving commands and having them obeyed. This fascinated C; she had not been like this before.

"This is my first case."

"Bullshit," M growled. "You've been missing for three weeks. What have you two been doing? Sitting in a hotel room playing chess? Don't fucking kid me. You can't even play chess. I can guess what you've been up to."

"No, you can't."

"Then tell me."

"Didn't you hear what Ryuzaki was saying about training? He's been training me to notice every little thing. That's one of the most important things in detection. And by the way, you have a tiny blob of mousse in your hair. I suppose you were in a hurry this morning. But why? You have no job, only veterinary college, and it's a Saturday, so that's nothing you need to worry about…"

"Stop it," M warned. "Stop reading into everything. Plus you can quit with the Ryuzaki crap, I know that's not his name."

"How quick you are to jump to conclusions," C murmured.

"I can tell – Claire Riddle's not _your_real name, either." M leant back, relaxing slightly more. She rubbed her eyes. "No. Your name is being kept hidden. That's what got me, you know, when those broadcasts started. It wasn't so much the letter C; dozens of people could have that nickname, or it could have been adapted as an alias, but the fact you'd gone really hit me. I didn't know what to think. You were someone I could trust – to my degree of trust, anyway – and you just disappeared saying it was a road trip?"

"The broadcasts were just a warning, anyway. They were just letting people know that someone had paired up with the world's greatest detective. It happens, like a merger between companies."

"So _Ryuzaki_is _L_?" M snickered. "That freakazoid. Well, if he's as good in bed as he is smart-"

"M!" she gasped. "I wouldn't do that with L!"

"Say what you want," she sniggered. "Half the world's population think you're fucking."

"I-I'm sorry?" she choked out. "Are you serious? I was told most people think C's a guy."

"Doesn't matter what gender you are, my dear C," M shrugged, sipping her coffee. "The truth is most people who watched that broadcast thought that L and C were together. I can show you some blogs and forums, even some fan websites speculating about it. They'd make your hair curl. You got Internet access on your phone or something?"

C nodded slowly, reaching into a briefcase she'd brought with her. She took out a glossy black Toshiba, opened it and switched it on, keeping a stern eye on M. Once the Internet was up and running (fortunately for them, Starbucks had Wi-Fi), M took over, typing rapidly into Google.

It only took a second after she'd pressed 'enter' for the results to appear. She raised a questioning eyebrow at her friend.

"What'd you do, C, rob a bank? This is some neat high-tech shit," she commented appreciatively. "Here's one, a bit less severe for your first time reading them."

"Hopefully also my _last_time," C muttered.

The website, called 'Two Letters', consisted of a long string of usernames and their hugely cringe-worthy opinions on C and her boss's relationship. She couldn't help but think how comically disappointed they would be if they knew they were just friends, maybe not even that. She was just someone who happened to interest him because she was the only person whose name he had not found out yet. Yet. And when that was done, she would have to go back to ordinary life.

Now she was in so deep, she couldn't imagine going back, but she would cross that bridge when she came to it. At the present, she was just going to absorb every minute, memorize every face, every scene, every smell and sound. He'd taught her to notice everything, after all. It was up to her now to remember it.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed a man walk in with his hands clamped down a woman's wrists. She seemed reasonably calm, but C could see the almost perfectly hidden signs of distress on her face. The laugh that sounded more forced than natural, the accidental twitch of her eye when the man pushed her into Starbucks further. Her own hand moved to her jacket pocket as his did.

Her assessment of the situation had to be swift. Make a scene and stop him, or keep her profile low, her identity hidden, and let people get hurt, or money get stolen? It was clear the woman was his hostage, probably just picked up off of the street. She knew these types – they were the sort of people she'd trained with. She'd been involved in raids, domestics, confrontations, even a mugging chase. They were not too difficult to figure out, unlike proper cases, of which Arnold Morecombe's was her first.

In the end, the justice-seeking part of her won out, and as soon as the gun came out, she dove down, grabbed her coat and searched in the pockets.

The thing was that M had seen the gun at the same time she had and had leapt up, snatching a polished black gun out of her leather jacket pocket, pointing at him. C stared in shock, but only for a moment.

"Drop the fucking gun!" M demanded angrily. "Now!"

C stood up then, taking her own revolver with her. "Let her go."

"I don't think-"

"Hey, asshole, she's _speaking_," M snarled. "Listen the fuck up, because she's probably the one who's gonna save your ass. I came here for coffee. I don't want to have to put up with your shit."

"What's your name?" C asked calmly.

"W-what?" The gunman gaped at her, caught off-guard not so much by her question than by her compassionate tone of voice. "Uh… Paul."

C nodded, lowering her gun and taking a tentative step towards him. It was only a small step, a step barely noticeable while she was talking to him. "Thank you for telling me, Paul. Now, what is the name of this lady?"

Names were important. Names reminded criminals that their hostages were people, not just objects to use for their own means.

"I-I don't know," Paul admitted.

"And why not?" C gasped, seemingly horrified by his lack of etiquette. "I don't invite people for coffee if I don't know their names. Why don't you ask her?"

"Oh, um… what's your name?" He turned to the woman he was holding hostage.

"C-Caroline."

"Do you have any family, Caroline?" C asked quietly.

"Y-yes," she sobbed. "I… have a… a lovely baby boy, Ben, and the most b-beautiful little girl called Lil."

In the time it had taken Caroline to tell Paul about her children, C had gotten within two steps of him. An arm's reach. She extended her hand and placed it over the barrel of the pistol in his hand, lowering it until he let go of it shakily. She took Caroline by the shoulders and gently guided her in the staff's direction, never taking her eyes off Paul. She took the last few steps required for her to be in contact with him, and whispered in his ear.

"She'll forgive you someday."

M had never seen a grown man cry. This had to be the first time. C hugged him kindly, then sat him down and spent ten minutes talking to him until the police came. Howarth gave her an inquisitive, surprised look, murmuring, "Trouble seems to follow you, doesn't it?" After that, everything returned to normal.

M and C were offered free drinks for their endeavors, which C declined and M accepted.

"There's no way L taught you to do that, C," M said in an undertone. "He is nowhere near compassionate enough for that. _That_ was all you."

"It seems I'm not the only one keeping secrets, M." She leant forward warily. "I have two questions. Where did you get a gun, and what happened to you that made you so speak so forcefully to him?"

M reached for her coffee, took a huge gulp of it and set it down on the table, wringing her hands. There wasn't going to be an easy way to say this. She took a deep breath.

"I needed money, C. You've got to understand that. I wanted out of my house, and my family weren't paying up for me to leave. I couldn't stand the atmosphere in there anymore. Carrie's fifteen now, and Effie's twelve. I felt like I was choking. A friend of mine offered me what was worth about a year's worth of wages from my part-time job, and if I was going to get anywhere I was going to need cash. I saw you leave, C. I watched you pack up your bags and head off in a cab, saying you were meeting other friends on a road trip."

The usually carefree expression on her face was gone. "Imagine that, C. _Other__friends_ you were going off around the continent with. You were doing what I wanted to do and you were leaving me behind."

"M, I'm sorry-"

"Let me finish. So, the deliveries were a way of getting good money fast, until I found out who they were for." She locked eyes with C icily, lowering her voice. "They were for the mafia."

"Which friend got you these deliveries?" C asked, rage building inside her.

"That doesn't matter-"

"_Who__got__you__the__deliveries_?" C growled. "Tell me. _Now._"

M sighed. "Tara."

"Tara!" C spluttered. "You chose to listen to _Tara_?"

"Well, you didn't stop me, did you?" M said sharply. That shut her up. "Well, I was sick of being just a pawn in their game, so I stormed up to where I'd been getting my orders from and shot the fucker, didn't I? The next night, I had two burly blokes knocking on my door. I had to tell Carrie to go fuck herself three times before she'd bugger off."

"And then?"

"It turned out I had to take the guy's job, since I'd killed him. I quit my part-time job, got my own place and took up his mantel. Since then, I've been moved up a few more places and I'm practically running the lower part of the UK's mafia business, checking on illegal animal export and imports. I have been doing some veterinary work."

"Is there anyone above you?"

"A blonde transvestite, apparently, so I've not got much to live up to. He ordered me to carry out a raid, and since we were almost caught last time, I didn't want to risk my neck anymore. I was at a bus shelter when someone yelled out, 'is there a doctor anywhere here'. So I went inside that house to laugh at some sick person and found out it was a crime scene – and you were there."

"M-"

"And you're just going to leave me on my own again? Do you really want me to go back to the mafia, C?"

"Don't-"

"Tough. C, I'm through with always being left behind. You no longer have anything to say on the matter. I'm involved in your life again. Congrats."

C laughed quietly. Her phone began ringing. "Hello? Oh, hi, Ryuzaki. Yes, we're having coffee. No, M is still here."

"Arrogant prick."

"Check for previous, any murders that have occurred in the… oh, I don't know… last five days or so?" Her expression changed to one of amused disbelief. "You already knew about the others, didn't you? You were testing me to see if I'd figure it out. Oh, I hate you sometimes." She chuckled. "Yes, you can comfort yourself with that. See you back at the hotel."

"Hotel?"

"Yes, of course I'll be careful… Mr. Lonsdale? He has a dog? Okay, scratch my last comment about me hating you. Later."

"You got a suspect?"

"Oh yeah," C grinned. "We've got a suspect."


	5. Day 1, 12:30pm

_Day 1, 12.30pm_

The house belonging to Eric Lonsdale was very much like any millionaire's mansion; elegant, timeless and gleaming. It was not, however, Mr. Lonsdale who opened the door to them. Instead, it was his wife, Jessica. She was very cold in her approach, and once inside, the two detectives saw a young girl, approximately fifteen or sixteen, storming down the staircase that led into the entrance hall furiously.

"Of course, this is my daughter, Ellie," Jessica Lonsdale said hurriedly, directing the detectives toward the living room.

"Can we see Ellie?" Ryuzaki requested.

"All in good time," Jessica said, clearly desperate with her haste. She glanced at her daughter. "Ellie, this is Detective Ryuzaki and Detective Riddle, here to investigate the death of Arnold Morecombe-"

"There have been developments we would like to inform you of, Mrs. Lonsdale, if you would please go and sit down," Ryuzaki said firmly. They followed the woman into the living room, leaving Ellie standing on the stairs, rather put out.

"Do you think Lonsdale's daughter has anything to do with the deaths?" C whispered to her colleague.

"No," he responded bluntly.

"Why not? You can't just dismiss-"

"I can. The girl holds a grudge against her mother, not an outsider like Morecombe," he pointed out. "When we were permitted into the house, there was a photograph of the girl in garments appropriate for ballet. It is my guess that it just so happens young Ellie had a dance performance that her mother was not capable of, or did not want to, attend. Ellie is nothing to do with Morecombe."

"Bloody hell," she muttered. "I have a lot to learn, don't I?"

Sitting down opposite Jessica Lonsdale, there was a very tense, awkward silence, in which Ryuzaki merely sat, motionless, with his knees up to his chest and a cold, unfeeling glower on his face. This may have been the cause of the discomfort that had settled in the room. Finally, Jessica cleared her throat and initiated conversation.

"What sort of developments did you want to tell me about?" she mumbled.

"Was that rude?" he asked C, who shook her head. "If I was being rude, I do apologize. I am quite unused to this…"

"Unused to what? Is this your first investigation-?"

"No, that's me," C said brightly, waving with an odd combined air of politeness and curiosity. "No, he's just not very good at socializing, talking to people."

"I-I'm sorry, are you _official_-?"

"Very official," Ryuzaki interjected.

"Very, very official," C added. Both smiled disconcertingly at Jessica Lonsdale, who cleared her throat discreetly. A big brown dog, perhaps a mongrel with some bloodhound and Labrador characteristics, entered the room, going to greet its mistress, who patted it on the head. C leant forward slightly. "This is your dog, Mrs. Lonsdale?"

"It's more of my husband's," she admitted. "He's called Sirius."

"After the Dog Star," C murmured.

"Yes," she agreed. "But what developments did you want to tell me about?"

"Actually, we have been informed that whomever killed Arnold Morecombe, a rival to your husband, left behind long dog hairs," Ryuzaki put in. Jessica immediately yanked her hand away from the animal's fur, as if it were contaminated with some vile germ.

"You can't possibly be saying that… that Eric-?"

"That is where you are wrong, Mrs. Lonsdale," Ryuzaki said. "That is exactly what we are saying – unless you can offer us evidence to the contrary."

"Well, Eric was with Lionel," Jessica choked out. "Eric was told to go and look at the stars…"

"Arnold Morecombe was murdered _this__morning_," Ryuzaki stopped her. "So where is your husband now?"

"At work."

"You sound confident," C noted.

"Because that's where he is, and where he has been since eight o'clock this morning," she insisted.

"We'll check up on that," C sighed. "Are there any locals you believe were capable of murdering Arnold Morecombe?"

"Plenty, I imagine," she confessed. "I suppose, though, you think there's some link between Arnold Morecombe and all of those other people who've died recently."

"We are looking into it," Ryuzaki said dryly. "Could you tell us, Mrs. Lonsdale, whether you are a regular churchgoer?"

"I beg your pardon?" she gasped. "Is my religion any of your concern?"

"It is if the killer of your neighbours is one of the congregation," he responded. "Then it is most definitely a matter for our concern."

"There is nobody in that church that would kill anybody!"

"How many people attend Sunday services every week?" asked Ryuzaki.

"A-about five hundred fit in the church, but-"

"And you are telling me honestly that nobody among these five hundred people is capable of even contemplating the death of another?" he said with such an air of self-assurance that C was able to watch Jessica Lonsdale's defense visibly crumble.

"You see, Mrs. Lonsdale, I have solved my fair share of cases, and in every case I have dealt with directly concerning another human being related to a suspect, that relative has protested profusely that the suspect has anything to do with the case. Very often – and this is important for you to understand, Mrs. Lonsdale – the relative of the suspect has not a clue what they are talking about, because they are not truly certain of the suspect's movements, or genuine personality. I will ask you a simple enough question, and I would like you to answer it truthfully: do you _know_your husband?"

C watched Jessica Lonsdale recoil slightly before lifting her chin and speaking boldly through a tight mouth. "I do."

"Very well. Has anyone been acting suspiciously since the deaths began, starting with Jack Coleman?" he asked.

C tried to remember the specific details of the briefing Ryuzaki had given her in the car on the way to the Lonsdale mansion. Jack Coleman had been the first of the deaths, and there was no denying he would have been difficult to kill knocking him out or stabbing him. He had been poisoned with bleach, and the reason for the difficulty in his physical manipulation was his size; after all, the man was five feet, nine inches tall and weighed twenty stone. He had died four days previously, yet been discovered a day after his death by his sister, Diane.

"God, no," Jessica said, shaking her head. "Everyone has been incredibly supportive of one another. This has been a tragedy for our area. We need to hold each other up. I knew Jack's sister, Diane. Lovely woman, but very concerned about Jack's health – rightfully so. He was horribly overweight… not that I mean to speak ill of the dead."

"Goodbye, Mrs. Lonsdale," Ryuzaki remarked chillingly. "We have all that we need from you at this time."

"Thank you for your time," C added, just to behave a little more politely than her cohort. "We will show ourselves out."

Ryuzaki stood abruptly, removing himself from Jessica Lonsdale's home and company. He was moving uncharacteristically quickly, with a determination that was a little disconcerting. C bid a hasty farewell to the stunned housewife and followed him out of the house, down the garden path and into the car. She exhaled slowly, processing the action from the Lonsdale abode. Finally, she brought herself to look at her… well, what was he? A colleague? A friend? Yes, friend seemed safe enough. He was hunched over himself, as usual.

"I sense that something is unsettling you," he murmured.

She looked down at the dashboard. "Do you try to mess with everyone's heads? She could barely give us a coherent, genuine answer because of the way you were behaving."

"You have never complained about my methods before."

"That is a stupid comment," she muttered. "This is my first proper case with you."

"Do you find anything wrong with my investigation plans, C?" he asked dryly. "If so, please feel free to vocalize the errors you have spotted. I have deduced from our somewhat short interview that Jessica Lonsdale knows nothing of her husband's activities, if he is truly involved with the murders. She is an innocent, as is her daughter. Is there anything I have missed?"

"I just thought you could have been less sharp with her," she mumbled. "She is a human being, Ryuzaki."

"Duly noted."

"You are not going to change at all." It was a statement, not a question.

He fixed her with a cool, wistful gaze. She felt a shiver run down her spine at the hint of ice in the look, yet did not react to it. "C, would you prefer that I change… at all?"

She put her hands on the steering wheel. "I think lunch is in order, or you will not function for the remainder of the day."

"You did not answer my question."

"I am not going to dignify that question with an answer," she told him. "So – lunch-"

"Why do you not wish to answer me?" he said.

"Can we just _drop__it_?" she snapped. He narrowed his eyes at his colleague; to be perfectly honest, this was the first time she had ever lost her temper with him, quite a surprise considering how exasperating he knew he would be to someone without the patience of a saint.

To her astonishment, he nodded. "Very well. Let us go purchase some victuals."

At this proclamation, she start sniggering, against her better judgment. "Nobody says things like that… you do crack me up sometimes." She grimaced. "Worse, you know how to make me forget that I am annoyed with you."

"Sometimes I wonder if you are actually rather temperamental, a trait I had not associated with you before," Ryuzaki announced. "Have you any medical history concerning mental illness?"

A wry smile lit her face. "You should know, _Detective_Ryuzaki."

"Are you implying something?"

"Only that when it comes to rifling through your colleague's digitalized medical history, birth certificate, school records and criminal record, you are in fact a rather severe failure, because you know pretty much everything about me besides the one thing you actually want to know," she shrugged. She glanced at him. "Lunch?"

"I appreciate knowing my colleagues."

"Yes, I understand that," she sighed, slotting the key into the ignition and twisting it so that the engine revved, "and you do know me. You know more about me than a reasonable amount of people. For example, you are aware that once we have broached a subject in conversation and I declare it done, that is the end of that discussion. This conversation is done, the next topic on the list being the rest of the murder victims."

"First of all, it was Jack Coleman, whom we have discussed prior to our arrival at the Lonsdale residence. The day after, thirty-three-year-old journalist Kevin Perdy died of blunt force trauma, killed with a single blow to the back of the head using a golden candlestick. On the third day, a five foot five shop assistant, married with two children, Marilyn Harding, missed work and ingested arsenic that evening."

"Our killer does not waste time, does he?" C remarked.

"Fourthly, we have Rebecca Eyre, a former model suffering from anorexia, five feet eight inches tall but seven stone. She was found in her home asphyxiated, however her lack of oxygen was _not_due to manual strangulation. She was choked with her own curling iron." He exhaled. "While it was switched on."

"Ouch."

"Then today, we have Arnold Morecombe. Stabbed five times in the side of the head, penetrating the frontal cortex, deposited in a bath of money." He brought his thumb up to his lips. "A wall spattered with red paint, signifying blood. It's very possible, approximately sixty percent, that the others are all examples, like Morecombe. Marilyn Harding was found with a note attached to her body."

C turned the steering wheel, driving them to an EAT in Marlowe. "What did the note say?"

"'Sleeping eternally', and that is all," he told her. "Well, sleep is something we shall all succumb to eventually. This is making it all premature."

"All this talk of blood, gore and death is making me hungry," she muttered. "I think we've earned ourselves a reprieve. We can question others later today."

"I think it is required that we speak to those in the community."

"Anyone specific?"

"C, we are going to church."

"Son of a-"

"Amen to that."


	6. Day 1, 1:55pm

_Day 1, 1.55pm_

After lunch (C buying a quick sandwich and a Coke, L wolfing down three of EAT's pastries, a sugary cup of tea and a chocolate brownie), the pair of detectives headed to the local place of worship. It was a Catholic venue, and despite L having been the one to suggest the visit, it was clear that he was particularly uncomfortable. Had they not been in a professional setting, C may have placed a hand on his hunched shoulder or brushed her arm against his as a reminder of her presence.

As it was, the church was nigh empty. Only an elderly man slumped in a pew at the front could be seen from the doorway, though a little woman murmuring from the back could be heard. Another woman appeared, apparently leaving the confession box, followed shortly after by who the detectives presumed could only be the pastor, or priest, seeing as he donned the appropriate attire and clasped the woman's hands kindly before sending her on her way.

He spotted L and C and made his way over, eyes inquisitive, as was rightly so. They were strangers. "Can I help you, sir? Miss?"

"My name is Ryuzaki, and this is Claire Riddle," L responded dryly. "We have been hired as consulting detectives for the incidents, by that I mean murders, taking place in this community. We felt it necessary to communicate, and seeing as a large percentage of the community spends its time _here_, we wished to see it."

"You seem skeptical, Mr. Ryuzaki," the priest noted. "Do you believe the only way to bring people together in such a way is through malevolence? Do you think us a cult?"

"I think you a _religion_." As if that explained everything ever done.

"I see you find it difficult to believe, sir, but having faith in God is not a crime," the priest insisted. "Believing does not make you old-fashioned or outdated, merely full of hope and light, and truth. Mr. Ryuzaki…"

"I hope you comprehend that my job requires me to use logic, evidence and what I see, with facts I am presented with, that can be verified." He shook his head. "But we are not here for conversion, Father." Did anyone else notice how he winced on the word 'father'? "We need to speak to you about the deaths that have occurred."

"Of course, son." Another wince. It was time for C to step in.

"Do you mind if we sit down, Father? And if we could take your name?" she asked.

"How rude of me," the priest said. He led them to a set of pews far from where the others in the church were seated and sat the two detectives down next to each other. L immediately brought his knees up to his chest in response. "My name is Peter, as the blessed saint guarding Heaven's gates. Claire – do you mind if I call you Claire?"

C shook her head.

"Claire, if you have questions, I would be happy to answer them. The deaths within our community are a travesty. I will help you in any way I can." L clenched his teeth; Peter had not granted the same kindness to him, just to C. "What is it you wish to know?"

"The people-"

"Would you mind if I took a look around?" L piped up. Taken aback, Peter had no choice but to nod. L rose from the pew and stalked, hands behind back, shoulders curved inward, toward the pulpit. He began inspecting the church from every angle, including – rather embarrassingly – lying flat on a small set of stairs to study the roof patterns.

"The people who died, they were all members of your congregation, were they not?" C questioned Peter. "Jack Coleman, Kevin Perdy, Rebecca Eyre, Marilyn Harding and Arnold Morecombe, you knew them all."

He nodded. "Every one of them. A sad state of affairs, I confess," he admitted. "Each one was troubled. Then again, everybody has their troubles."

"Not everybody is brutally murdered."

"It should not comes as a surprise to you that they were all members of the congregation, Claire. This is, after all, a place of worship, and the predominant religion in this area is in fact Christianity. It is to be expected. People need a place to hold their beliefs sacred, and this is the ideal place."

L snorted derisively from his location studying a wooden Jesus being crucified.

"Anyway… Rebecca Eyre stopped attending Mass about two weeks ago. It is so unfortunate, considering how much her faith could have helped her. She fell into a kind of depression, becoming almost a recluse, going out only when needed. Even looking to the stars did not assist her. She felt betrayed. Her contract with the modeling agency who spotted her had ended." She waited for him to continue. "They were not happy with her, and she no longer saw reason to believe."

"Modeling agency..." C murmured. "Would that be the same modeling agency that one Ashley Annabeth Lawson belonged to at one time? Before she married Arnold Morecombe?"

"Correct, as expected," Peter confirmed. "Arnold and Ashley married in this very church, actually. Ashley and Rebecca worked together, as I'm sure you may have heard. Diane Coleman was running Arnold's female Roulette range. She wanted two models, and the pair of women fit the bill perfectly."

"Fashion, fashion, fashions," she mumbled to herself, running a hand through her hair, "trends, mode, _moda_… ugh, my head… I feel like I'm missing something here… but what _is_it?"

"Coleman!" L called whilst studying a table weighted with impressive flower arrangements. "Diane Coleman, specifically, Jack's older sister. Jack was murdered by poisoning him with bleach. Diane was connected to Rebecca, Rebecca to Ashley, Ashley to Arnold, Arnold to this church, and this church… everybody."

"In a town this close, everyone knows everyone, so there will be connections," Peter pointed out. "We're all good friends here."

"Such good friends that one of you decides to kill five people," L retorted sharply. "And I am well aware of connections. It is just finding the _right_ones."

"Did Arnold Morecombe still attend church, despite his desire to have it demolished and used a car park?" C asked Peter, hoping that would mean L would let it go. "It just seems… odd."

"He still attended," Peter answered, "though sat on his own, usually. He probably wanted forgiveness more than anything, before he ruined a house of God."

"I see. Well, now, he is incapable of buying anyone out."

"Such is a price for a human life."

"I know," C sighed. "Not just one, either. Five. But that's why we require your help, Father. We want it to stop, because if it turns out that this killer is after everyone who attends the church because he is against Catholics, or is just some madman who wants to watch the world burn around him, it is a waste of human life. One death is a waste."

"You are wise beyond your years, Claire," Peter commented, smiling slightly at the young woman.

"_Claire_," L said. "Come here."

Her feet responded automatically to his voice before her brain had given his words time to compute. Even without that dark tone of voice, she knew she would have gone to join him immediately. She had gotten so used to doing what he told her that it was an instantaneous reaction, a reflex. Using a fake name worked just as well as anything else. Claire, C, Detective Riddle… all it meant was that he needed her there.

"What-?" Then she cut herself off.

Of course – if he had not been provoked by Peter's words, by his discomfort in his current surroundings, he would have noticed this straightaway. He was an intelligent man, broaching borderline genius, and this was a mistake so simple he would be kicking himself for a long time after. This… neither of them could quite believe it. They were standing in front of the table with all of its flower arrangements, where there were other decorations, one with a microscopic dark red smear on it.

"What do you see, Claire?"

"Uh… if we know that Kevin Perdy was murdered with a golden candlestick, and _that_has _blood_on it, why on earth is it _here_?" she hissed.

**XXX**

L's fist dropped onto the desk that Sergeant Pinter was sitting behind, sending pens and a small dish of marbles skittering erratically all over the place. Pinter stared at him in complete and utter disbelief. The detective had kept his facial expression completely neutral as his side of his fist clattered into the desk, so the action had been unexpected, to say the least.

"What do you think you're doing?" Pinter demanded, shocked. "Have you lost your mind?"

C tried not to let L see her flinch at his fist pounding down on the table.

"'Our best boys have been in', he says." L's voice was ice. "You barely touched the scene, didn't look at it. You went through it lazily, because it costs _money_. You skimmed the surface like a television show, taking five minutes to look and make a quick appraisal. That is why the golden candlestick currently in the church that all of the victims attended and was used to kill Kevin Perdy has not been taken into evidence."

It took a moment for Pinter to absorb the words. Once they sunk in, he sighed, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. He fixed L with a glare.

"You think you have the right to waltz in here with your non-existent airs and graces, big city kids, fast-trackers! I know about people like you. You never do hard time, never work because your families or friends are putting you on the up and up," he snapped. "I have _worked_to get here!"

"We are here because we were asked to be here," L shot back. "And you are just screwing with us."

The phrase 'screwing with us' did not suit L's vocabulary, yet had the desired effect. Pinter backed off, scowling. C had lowered her eyes as she stood in the doorway behind L, hating the sinking feeling that attacked her. With the local law enforcement ruining their chances of solving the case, she did not feel secure. She would have to face going home to her family sooner than she had expected. This meant so much to her. She could not give it up yet.

"Five people are dead, Sergeant Pinter," she said, controlled. "They were murdered. We are not asking you to like us; I would not wish to be friends with your sort, regardless, but we are asking you to lend us your full cooperation in this investigation. You do not compromise evidence, you do not ignore it, you do everything you can to ensure that this murderer is brought to justice. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"I will not be taking requests from an eighteen-year-old bimbo."

"It's not a request." Her voice had taken on a hard, cold quality to it, like diamond.

"We want _respect_," L growled. "And I do not expect to have to break a desk in order to receive it, Sergeant. This immaturity shall end, right here. Apologize to Claire for your rudeness, and then we shall go and do the job you should be doing, to a more efficient standard."

It was fifteen seconds before Pinter conceded to an apology. He waved them out of his office and began to rearrange his desk, grumbling as he did so. L and C had agreed they would go speak to Caroline Perdy, Kevin's wife, then would follow the leads she gave them. After that, they would go over the paperwork and order room service for the evening. Both were feeling angry, though not at one another, and disheartened by the investigation so far.

Sitting in the car on the way to the late Kevin Perdy's home, they both sighed.

"Pinter is an idiot," L remarked, "a coward hiding behind a computer."

Before she could stop herself, C said gently, "Remind you of anyone?"

He stared at her for what must have been a long time. "I am not sitting behind a computer right now, C."

"Why did you hate that church so much?" she asked before he could elaborate. "What was it? Is it because you know what lies beyond death, and you think believers foolish?"

"Monsters lie beyond death, but believers are not foolish," L corrected her quietly. "Foolish is not the term I would use."

"Then, what?"

"Fortunate."

"That is the only reason?"

"No. There are more reasons, reasons beyond mere envy, for which I dislike religion."

"You're not going to tell me." It was not a question. She managed not to sound disappointed. "You're never going to tell me."

"Perhaps one day, in years to come, if you are still with me, here."

C parked the car on the pavement not far from Caroline Perdy's abode, and glanced at L as it halted. "There are worse monsters than those beyond death."


	7. Day 1, 4:30pm

_Day 1, 4.30pm_

It was difficult to decide whether Caroline Perdy was upset by her husband's passing or not, making her immediately suspicious in behavior. C recognized her at once as the woman being held hostage in the coffee shop, though she clearly did not register her rescuer's face so easily. There was a glance that displayed puzzlement at where Caroline may have seen her before, but no more than that.

The little blonde girl C believed must be Lil rammed into her mother's ankles with a giggle. She observed that Caroline made no rush to scoop the girl back onto her feet again, and so she must have had something else burdening rather strongly on her mind. Lil scrambled towards what was most likely the living room, considering the noise being emitted from it. It became obvious what was on Caroline's mind the moment a tall man with the beginnings of a beard turned the corner.

"Caroline?" the man grumbled. "Who are these two?"

"They're investigating Kevin's death," she said sharply, and the man froze in the doorway.

"I didn't have anything to do with it," he told them immediately. He held his hands up in a show of surrender. "Kevin may have been an asshole, and Caroline and I may be seeing each other, but that does mean I killed the sod."

L arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should elaborate on your current circumstances when you invite us into your kitchen?"

Caroline rubbed the side of her neck self-consciously and nodded, nudging Lil toward the living room and pushing past the man in the doorway as she led the two detectives through toward the clean, tiled kitchen on the other side of the house. She pulled out two chairs, awaiting their seating, then shrugged when they made no move to sit down. She sighed and shook her head.

"This is what it's come down to, isn't it? You thinking that I had a hand in my own husband's death?" She cleared her throat. "The man you saw back there is one of the town's chemists. His name is Keith Johnston, and for the past two years, he's been my… my… well, he's been my lover."

Admittedly, neither investigator had expected such a blatant confession of their suspect's relationship status, despite both of their having predicted that this was the case. C gestured for Caroline Perdy to continue with her story, as she sensed that there was more yet to be told concerning the scandal.

"Kevin and I weren't happy, you have to understand that," Caroline defended herself, "and to be perfectly honest with you, he was hardly a man in his… bedroom dealings. He was always just too tired to even think about making me feel good. I came across Keith once when I went into the chemist shop to get some vitamin supplements. I was getting a cold and didn't want one."

"Yes, we understand that part," L muttered.

"I met up with him a few more times by accident, and I don't know, one day he just kissed me out of the blue. I'd argued with Kevin that day as well, so that didn't help. After that, I knew we shouldn't have carried on, what with Ben and Lil, but you know when two people just share this wonderful, unstoppable connection you just can't ignore?" L and C exchanged a look. "Well, you just keep going, don't you? You don't just disregard it completely."

"So you have been having an affair with Mr. Johnston for two years," L stated.

"Yes," she agreed. "Obviously, when Kevin found out, he wasn't a very happy man, but I tried to explain, didn't I? Told him that he'd been ignoring me, that of course I wasn't going to stay with him with the way he was behaving," she muttered. She knuckled her forehead, taking a deep breath. "You don't mind if I get myself a drink, do you? I think I need something strong."

Without waiting for their response, she reached for a whisky glass and went to the small larder just off from the kitchen. Eventually, she returned with a large bottle of Jack Daniel's.

"Can I get you anything?" she murmured, pouring herself some JD's. "Tea, coffee, juice…?" She held up her own glass in show. "Whiskey?"

"Nothing for me, thank you," said C.

"No," L replied bluntly. "Tell me your late husband's reaction to your affair. His _exact _reaction, if you do not mind, Mrs. Perdy."

"I told him straight out, and he went silent for a second, then he said, 'Why would you betray me like that?' I said it wasn't betrayal, that he'd given up on me years ago-"

"Mrs. Perdy, how long ago did you tell your husband about Mr. Johnston?" L interrupted.

"About a week ago," she shrugged. "You don't think that Keith or I _killed_ him, do you? Keith would never do such a thing! He talked it all out with Kevin, they agreed that Kevin would move out and let it go, just leave it until the divorce papers came through."

"I bet he kicked up a right fuss, though," C murmured.  
>"Well, yeah, of course he did, but he got over it, didn't he? They had a bit of an argument, they pulled themselves together, it's what you do. Why hold a grudge when all it's going to do is hurt people around you?" she sighed.<p>

"Yes, indeed," L said. "Why hold a grudge… Mr. Johnston?"

Keith Johnston had been standing behind them. Now, slightly abashed over being caught so easily, he walked slowly over to the kitchen table and took a seat from the place where the detectives were originally meant to sit. He scratched the side of his face. There was a look in his eyes tinged with guilt.

"It's not a matter of grudges, Detective," he growled, "just a matter of Kevin biting off more than he could chew. It wasn't me. Why would I kill him? I already had Caroline, everything I wanted."  
>"Competition in love counts for a lot in motivation," C pointed out.<p>

"As far as Keith and myself are concerned, there is no competition," Caroline insisted. "Kevin and I were the past. Keith is my present, and my future."

"There was serious conflict between Mr. Johnston and the late Mr. Perdy, however you believed you had resolved the matter." L rolled his eyes. "This visit is almost a complete waste of time."

"Ryuzaki-" C said.

"No, Claire, please do listen," L mumbled, "I said, '_almost _a complete waste of time', not 'a complete waste of time'." He gave Keith Johnston worryingly severe eye contact. "I need to ask you where we can get a bird's-eye view of the city."

"Uh, astronomy tower, probably," Caroline blurted out. "Why?"

"Do you need to know, Mrs. Perdy?" L asked in an accusing tone.

"I… I mean… no, of course not, but…"

"Then you would do best to remain silent," he warned her. "Mr. Johnston, where is this astronomy tower located? How far from here?"

"It's about two miles from here," he answered hastily. "You can see it from the town centre. Look, why don't I drive you two-?"

"That will not be necessary," L cut him off. "We have a car."

He took C by the wrist, bidding the couple a quick farewell and dragging her out to the car, when he opened the passenger door for her and insisted she get in. Puzzled, she obeyed as he climbed into the driver's seat. Over the last year, he had been attempting to improve his driving skills, seeing as beforehand, his guardian Watari had driven him everywhere. He had also tried to merge with regular public transport use in order to gain his independence.

"Why an astronomy tower?" she enquired.

"If I see the city from above, perhaps maybe a clearer correlation will form in front of our eyes," L suggested. "Consider this another lesson. You need to see a crime scene from all angles: above, below, from the side, from within, outside…"

"Like you were doing in that church," she realized.

"Precisely. There could have been clues on the ceiling that no one besides myself would imagine. There could have been clothes under the rug on the steps leading to the altar. I must impress on you that if I teach you only one thing, it is this: _never assume_. It is absolutely vital. It is not safe to assume you have catalogued everything until you have."

"I thought part of being a detective was taking risks."

"It is," he admitted, "but I want you to be much more careful than I am. You are young and have little experience. Only when you have had enough experience to trust your intuition will I imply that you should follow it." He turned a corner, following the signs that would lead to the astronomy tower. "I have lost a lot of people in my lifetime, C."

"I get it," she said, clearing her throat. "I'd just be adding to the list. It's all right, I won't do anything stupid."

"You know, I might believe you," he sighed, "if you did not remind me of myself at your age."

She grinned and bit her lip. "So I'm going to become diabetic?"

"I'm not diabetic."

"I know, but my sugar tolerance level is much lower than yours and if I ate as much sugar as you do, I would end up diabetic," she explained. "Besides that, I would also have severe back problems, sleep issues…"

"Okay, C, you have made your point."

"An aversion to socks…"

"I _said_, you made your point."

She nudged him, laughing. "I'm only teasing. I know you don't get it a lot, with your respectable 'great detective L' persona and everything, but you've been training me for almost four weeks now and you're going to have to get used to it sometime."

"Not yet."

They turned into a small gray gravel turnoff outside of the town adjacent to a large white stone tower with a curved roof and enormous windows to see the sky. Curiously, they approached the heavy metal doors. A button and microphone at the side of the door indicated the same process as when presented with an apartment block. L pressed a button and was greeted by a tinny voice.

"_Yes?"_

"We are detectives Ryuzaki and Riddle," L told the voice. "We are here to investigate the deaths that have occurred recently and would be much obliged if you would let us in."

"_Sure, I was just closing up shop, but you can come up."_

The doors in front of them clicked and permitted them to push them open properly, which led them to a dingy elevator. There was only the ground and first floor, so the choice was evident. They arrived a moment later and were met by a lanky man of about five foot ten, with brown hair, black-framed glasses and a white lab coat. The room around them was circular, with a giant white cylindrical pillar in the centre of the room. The floor was clean and tiled, the walls that were not windows decorated with star charts and satellite images.

"My name is Lionel," the man introduced himself. "But some call me Dr. Warren."

"German origins," L murmured as he studied the star charts.

Lionel looked surprised. "Yes. How did you-?"  
>"Warren is a German surname," he pointed out. "Now, I believe you are capable of letting us see the city from above?"<p>

"Easier than getting a police helicopter, I guess," Lionel chuckled. "Yeah, there's a telescope there. Go ahead." He turned to C. "So, you're a detective too? You seem pretty young."

"Everyone in this town is so ageist!" she laughed. "I can do anything those police can."

"You're probably better than they are," he smiled. "No offence to the local force, but… well, yeah, offence. They're more than a bit incompetent. They're not used to crime here, so when this teenager shoplifted a little while ago, they were totally at a loss for what to do."

"I believe _that_," she said. She glanced over at L. "Got anything?"

"No…" L grumbled. "I'm mapping out the murders in my head, but… it is not right. Even geographical profiling is troublesome. I cannot comprehend it. There must be a pattern somewhere, but I get the feeling it is not complete yet."

"Don't worry, I'm sure we'll find something," she reassured him. She patted Lionel's arm. "Thank you for letting us come here at such short notice. Ryuzaki, would you like to go now?"

He put a hand on her shoulder. "I think it would be best."

Her eyes followed his hand to his face, which was contemplating. Contemplating what, she could not quite decipher. "Back to 'base', then?"

"Yes," he agreed.

* * *

><p><em>The latest rewrite is now done - chapter 7 and onwards is all fresh, new material.<em>

_Thanks for reading!_

_C._


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